“The dog came back, Mma,” he said, pointing at the excited creature at his feet. “It was while you were over at Mma Potokwane’s place. He came back.”
“So I see,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“I don’t know how he did it,” Fanwell continued. “They say that dogs are very good at finding their way. Do you think it’s to do with their very strong sense of smell? Do you think that’s how they do it, Mma? Don’t you think he’s clever, Mma?”
His eagerness betrayed his anxiety, and when Mma Ramotswe looked at him, he winced.
“I didn’t encourage him to come back,” he muttered. “I promise you, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of acceptance. “I know you didn’t, Fanwell. This is not your fault.”
“I didn’t know what to do, Mma. So I tied him up here.”
“That’s all right, Fanwell,” she said. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”
His relief was obvious.
“Has Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said anything?” she asked.
Fanwell sighed. “He said that I would have to take him back again. He said we cannot keep a dog in the garage.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We couldn’t leave a dog here overnight. He would be miserable. He’d just howl.”
“I know,” said Fanwell. “But I can’t take him home. My uncle has said that he will not have a dog about the place. He says there isn’t even enough room for the people already in the house.”
Mma Ramotswe had seen the house that Fanwell lived in; she knew that what he said was true: it was a very small house, not much more than a shack, really, and there were at least three people in every room. She thought, too, that there was probably not much spare food in the house, and that even the few scraps that a dog needed would be hard to come by.
She scratched her head. “I will have to think about this,” she said. “We can’t leave him here.”
She made her way back into the office, where Mma Makutsi greeted her with an inquisitive look.
“I’ve seen the dog,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I’m not surprised. These creatures have maps in their heads. I’m not surprised he came back.”
Her calm acceptance caught Mma Makutsi unawares.
“But I never thought…”
“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “As I said, I’m not all that surprised.”
She crossed the room to switch on the kettle. “Tea helps in these situations,” she said. “It clears the mind. It helps you think of possible solutions.”
“I can see none,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe returned to her desk. She stared up at the ceiling with its criss-cross of fly tracks. For flies, the ceiling board must have been a great white Kalahari, featureless and limitless.
“Mma Makutsi,” she began. “You have a lot of room at that new place of yours. You have a very big yard. You have that man who works in the garden for you. You have all that space.”
Mma Makutsi looked suspicious. “Yes, Mma, all of that is true, but…”
“I just wondered whether you wouldn’t find a dog useful. You don’t have one at the moment, do you?”
Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them energetically. “You’re not suggesting, are you, Mma, that I should take Fanwell’s dog? That it should come and live with Phuti and me?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Well, it’s out of the question,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “Phuti does not want another dog. He had one, and it was a lot of trouble. It bit people. He does not want history to repeat itself.”
“So I take it that means no?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I’m sorry, Mma. I’d like to help, but I can’t take Fanwell’s dog.”
Mma Ramotswe felt that she had to correct her. “It’s not Fanwell’s dog,” she said. “Not really.”
“It thinks it is,” said Mma Makutsi. “It has adopted him, I think. That’s what’s happened, Mma. Dogs can sometimes do that. They see somebody and think, That’s a good person who will give me a lot to eat, and that’s that—as far as the dog’s concerned.” She rose to her feet. The kettle was beginning to boil and she usually made the tea. As she prepared the teapot and cups, she continued: “We had a case like that in Bobonong, you know. It was a long time ago. There was a very small man—really small, Mma; about half the size of Mr. Polopetsi, although he had a very big nose—and this big dog came into the village and sat outside this small man’s house. It was a very large dog, Mma—I’m not exaggerating when I say that when people first saw it they thought it was a donkey, but then it began to bark and they realised that it was a dog.”
Mma Ramotswe sat back in her seat. She had never visited Bobonong, and felt that her idea of the place, as depicted in Mma Makutsi’s stories, was an unlikely one; dogs as large as donkeys, very small men with outsized noses…it all sounded rather improbable.
“Anyway,” Mma Makutsi went on, “this dog just sat outside the small man’s house, and when the man came out of the house he licked him and almost knocked him over. He really loved that small man, and nothing would keep him away from him. The dog moved in and ate most of the small man’s food. He also took over the bedroom, and made the small man sleep outside on some sacking. I’m not making this up, Mma—it all happened.”
Mma Ramotswe watched as Mma Makutsi poured the tea. She hoped that the story would have a proper ending; often Mma Makutsi’s stories ended in doubt: she would say, “And I don’t know what happened after that, Mma, but it can’t have been good.” Or she might conclude, “Nobody knows what became of these people but I think they are late, or maybe not late yet—who knows?”
“So what happened to the dog?” she asked.
“That small man died,” said Mma Makutsi. “Somebody reversed a tractor over him. They didn’t see him, because he was so small; it was nobody’s fault.”
“And the dog?”
“Oh, that dog was very sad after his owner became late. He sat there and howled and howled, Mma—looking up at the sky and howling. Dogs think that their people will last forever, Mma—they do not understand about becoming late.”
“No, I suppose they do not.” And that made it easier for them—or, perhaps, harder. Mma Ramotswe felt that she would have to think more about that.
“One of the small man’s relatives came,” Mma Makutsi continued. “He was also very small—they all were, those people. Same nose too—these things run in families, you know, Mma. We saw that up in Bobonong; we saw that a lot. There was a family there that had only four toes: grandmother, mother, children—four toes. On each foot, of course: eight toes altogether. It was as if God had said, ‘You people are going to get four toes only. No argument. Four toes, so shut up.’ ” She paused. “Anyway, this relative of the small man took the dog off somewhere and he was never seen again. It is not a very happy story, Mma, but Fanwell’s dog has brought it all back to me.”
Mma Ramotswe took the teacup Mma Makutsi passed her. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “Tea always helps clear the mind. And as for your story about that small man—I’m very sorry to hear about the tractor.”
“These things happen,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I think those small people—that man’s relatives—were used to things like that. That is how their life is, you see. They start off underfoot, so to speak, and they remain there.”
Mma Ramotswe imagined the small family, with their prominent noses, putting up with the indignities heaped upon them by larger people. Mma Makutsi could sometimes simplify things, but she was often very good at seeing the world from another perspective. Tall people could forget that the world might look quite different if you were short; and of course well-off people had a marked tendency to forget how things might look if you were poor. We have to remind ourselves, she thought. We have to remind ourselves how the world looked when viewed from elsewhere.
Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles. She began to polish the lenses, thoughtfully, as one might do when
contemplating some great truth. “We would like the world to be different,” she said gravely. “We would like things like that not to happen—but they can’t be avoided, Mma—particularly if you’re very small.”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You’re right. They can’t be avoided.”
Yes, she thought, no amount of wishful thinking could obliterate the hard facts of existence. There were those who prospered, and those who did not. There were those for whom life was easy, not a struggle at all, and those to whom daily existence was painful and humiliating. That was the pain of the world, and it was all around us, washing at the shores of whatever refuges we created for ourselves. She thought of Fanwell, a young man who had very little in this life, and of his dog, who had even less. She could turn away and say that they had nothing to do with her, or she could accept that they had somehow touched her skirt. For that was how she viewed it: we all had a skirt, and those who touched our skirt became our concern.
After a few sips of tea, Mma Ramotswe had reached her conclusion. “Mma Makutsi,” she said, “you’re nearer the door. Could you call Fanwell in, please?”
Fanwell came in, wiping his hands. He looked timidly at Mma Ramotswe, expecting further reproach. But that was not what Mma Ramotswe had in mind.
“Fanwell,” she said. “That dog can come to Zebra Drive this evening. It can stay there until we work something out. You needn’t worry.”
Fanwell clapped his hands together, dropping the paper towel as he did so. “Oh, Mma…Oh, Mma, you are the kindest lady in Botswana—in the whole of Africa. That is one hundred per cent true, Mma—I’m not just saying it. You are the best lady there is…” He glanced at Mma Makutsi. “And you too, Mma Makutsi, you are a very good lady too. You are both very kind.”
Mma Ramotswe explained that she would need his help to create a run for the dog. “We’ll need a long wire pegged out so that we can attach his lead—you know the sort of thing. That will mean that the dog can run backwards and forwards when we are not there.”
“I’ll make that myself, Mma,” promised Fanwell. “The dog will be very safe there, at your place. And he will keep burglars away too, Mma. They’ll see the dog and think, I’m not going to steal from that place—not with that dog there.”
“No burglar would dare to steal from Mma Ramotswe anyway, Fanwell,” said Mma Makutsi.
“No, maybe not,” said Fanwell.
“Why?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
Fanwell looked at the floor. “Because…because…” It was to do with traditional build, but he could not say that. He had never witnessed Mma Ramotswe engaged in a physical struggle—not surprisingly, since she abjured violence of any sort—but he had heard that when absolutely pressed, she had been known to sit on people, crushing the resistance out of them remarkably quickly and efficiently. A well-informed burglar might know that, and give the house on Zebra Drive a wide berth for that reason.
Mma Makutsi took over. “Because burglars aren’t stupid, Mma. They know that you’re a detective. What burglar would steal from a detective’s house? Only a very stupid one, Mma.”
“Yes,” said Fanwell hurriedly. “That’s what I meant, Mma. That’s exactly what I meant.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “Get your dog ready, Fanwell,” she said. Then, to Mma Makutsi, she said, “Mma, have you talked to Mr. Polopetsi recently? He hasn’t been in for a while.”
Mma Makutsi made a vague gesture. “He’s been teaching, I think. You know what he’s like—he never tells anybody what he’s doing. The school calls him up at short notice.”
“But have you spoken to him?”
Mma Makutsi replied that she had seen him the previous week. “He was very excited. He came to my place.”
Mma Ramotswe was interested. “Specially to see you?”
Mma Makutsi smiled. “Yes. You know about his scheme? You know he has a business scheme, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve heard about it.”
“It’s a very good scheme, apparently,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe hardly dared ask. “And did you…”
She did not finish. Mma Makutsi looked pleased. “You know something, Mma? He let me in on very preferential terms.”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “He did, did he?”
“Yes. Phuti gives me a bit of money now and then for my own savings—you know how kind he is. Well, I put some of that into Mr. Polopetsi’s scheme. He wanted ten thousand, but I didn’t give him that. I put in three thousand pula, though, and I believe that I shall be getting—”
“Twenty-five per cent return,” supplied Mma Ramotswe.
“Exactly. How did you know, Mma? Are you in on it too?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed again. “I heard about it,” she said.
“Word gets out,” mused Mma Makutsi. “Have a good idea, and word gets out. It always does.”
CHAPTER SIX
MR. TWENTY-FIVE PER CENT
MMA RAMOTSWE had been confronted with cases like this before, where the client wanted to find out something but could provide very little information. The fallibility of human memory, its vague and impressionistic nature, meant that the details that would enable a reconstruction of the past were simply not there. Sometimes the vagueness was extreme, as where a woman searching for the father of her child, conceived twenty-five years previously, remembered only the nickname by which she and his friends knew him. As if this were not difficult enough, she had then produced a photograph of him in which his face had been cut out, leaving only torso and limbs for identification.
“I was cross with him,” she said, “and so I cut out his face and threw it down the toilet.”
Mma Ramotswe had been understanding. Men who sired children and then failed to accept responsibility for them were anathema to her, and she reserved particular disapproval for those who then completely disappeared. She wondered how they managed it; was there some sort of secret organisation, known only to men, that spirited them away, perhaps giving them a new identity under which they could continue their irresponsible ways? In that case she had eventually managed to find him through a trick, mentioned by Clovis Andersen in The Principles of Private Detection, that she had thought would never work, but did. If all else fails, wrote Mr. Andersen, you can try to trace people by asking them to step forward! Yes, believe it or not, that works. Place an ad in the press asking for—and here insert the name of the person (you have, at least, to know that)—to reply to a box number about a possible legacy. That may work. Of course there is the familiar ethical issue, but remember you are only talking about a possible legacy and it’s always possible that anybody will get a legacy one of these days.
Mma Ramotswe had been very doubtful but had eventually put in a small advertisement saying, “If the person known as Fancy Harry, resident in Gaborone twenty-five years ago, contacts the undermentioned, he will learn something of great interest to himself.” That wording, she decided, was completely honest. Fancy Harry, if he responded, would imagine that it was financial interest to which the advertisement was referring, but learning that your child and her mother were keen to contact you was undoubtedly of interest too, even if it was not exactly welcome information.
To her astonishment it worked. Fancy Harry responded, giving his current address and his real name, and adding that he could provide details of his bank account if required. She did not know what happened after she had provided this information to her client, but if Fancy Harry had an unwelcome shock, it was thoroughly deserved, as far as Mma Ramotswe was concerned; not that she expressed the same delight in this outcome as did Mma Makutsi. She had danced a small jig round the office when the reply was received, chanting, “That will teach men to have their fun and then disappear.”
Mma Ramotswe wondered whether a similar approach might bear fruit in Susan’s case. She asked Mma Makutsi for her views, and was told that there would be no harm in trying. “People read the small ads in the Botswana Daily Ne
ws,” she said. “There are many people who find them more interesting than the main news. If you put in something like ‘Are you called Rosie and did you work a long time ago for a Canadian family?’ then there may be people who knew her even if she herself does not read it.”
“But what about impostors?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “There will be many people who will sniff out some financial gain and will claim to be that Rosie. What will we do about them?”
Mma Makutsi clearly had not thought about that, and looked disappointed. But then she brightened. “We have the photograph, Mma,” she said. “We could publish that. We could say: ‘Are you this woman?’ That will discourage those people because they will not look like the real Rosie.” She paused. “I know the photograph is very indistinct, Mma, but at least it gives us some idea of the lady’s build—and of the shape of her head.”
Mma Ramotswe considered this. It was a good idea, she thought, and it would not cost a great deal. They might even get the newspaper to make a news story of it, in which case it would be completely free. She raised this possibility with Mma Makutsi, who agreed.
“I can telephone that journalist woman,” she said. “Phuti gave her a big discount on her dining-room furniture a couple of months ago. I will enquire how her table is doing and then ask her.”
The telephone call was made that morning. The journalist required no persuasion. “Our readers are always interested in these human interest stories,” she said. “I shall come and interview you this morning, Mma Makutsi, and perhaps we can have your photograph in the paper as well. Shall I bring our photographer?”
The arrangements were made. Mma Ramotswe was pleased because she now had something to report to the client; Mma Makutsi, who had only been mentioned in the papers once before—when she graduated from the Botswana Secretarial College—was excited at the prospect of being interviewed and photographed. She was concerned that Mma Ramotswe might feel that she was stealing the limelight, but there was no sign of that. Mma Ramotswe, in fact, was happier being in the background. Everybody knew who she was, anyway, and she did not need any further exposure. And Clovis Andersen, it seemed, agreed with her. Always remember the case is not about you, he wrote. The case is about the client. The more invisible you are, the better. Keep a low profile. Don’t tell the press anything you don’t need to tell them. Quietly does it—every time.
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